Hetalia: Forgive, But Do Not Forget
by Bai-Marionette
Summary: It felt like it could only be worse, as the life and relationship of two males is twisted sharply from whence it started. Both are met with each other's initial coldness, and while one simply waits out the other to thaw, the second male finds that he has a new way to be kept warm. USUK. For ilovezim123.
1. Chapter 1

**Forgive, But Do Not Forget**

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **It felt like it could only be worse, as the life and relationship of two males is twisted sharply from whence it started. Both are met with each other's initial coldness, and while one simply waits out the other to thaw, the second male finds that he has a new way to be kept warm. USUK. For ilovezim123.

**_BrooklynBabbii_**

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**Recommended Listening: **"Familiar Taste of Poison" by Halestorm; "Untraveled Roads" by Linkin Park

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It was a bad argument. It had all begun as an argument. It was an argument that led to silent meals, where the only sound present was the sound of casual breathing and the clink of silverware on porcelain plates. They were some skipped meals, and the suspicious glances out in the halls, but those were particularly bad arguments. Those shall not be looked into for the sanctity of what peace has been restored since its silence. There is no need to raise them again.

But as it would seem for Arthur, that last argument, which he hadn't known but it was and still could be the very catalyst of their fragile relationship's downfall. It was so revealing on both ends, so heated that both sides had tears in their eyes and their voices were said to have been reaching the higher pitches by the very middle of it. That argument.

That was the argument before the initial battle. The argument where the emotionally and physically exhausted colony declared something that Arthur had hoped he would never say. The declaration had shaken them both, put the both of them on the spot and held them there with tremendous force, and then, finally torn their relationship into far more than just shreds. The declaration and the war and battles that followed did more than tear the bond between them into sheer nothingness; it did worse.

It threaded sorrow into every happy moment, sewn bitterness in every jolly day, blew the displeasure and negligence in all of their greyer days out of proportion. It took everything that they had had once shared and twisted it beyond recognition. Everything was nothing, and nothing was everything. Love and familiarity turned to borderline depressive anger and slight revulsion; it turned joy at seeing each other into fear of another war, anxiety of yet another oncoming argument from each other's conflicting views.

If Arthur and Alfred's relationship could be summed up, after the Revolution that had torn them apart, it would be this:

**Should the grass have been greener on the other side, they were in a desert.**

* * *

Arthur awoke to a reluctant consciousness, his limbs sore and feeling the pang and sore of exhaustion and bruises. He almost half-wondered why he was so tired and in so much pain, before he remembered. Alfred. He and…America, as he so strictly wanted Arthur to recognize him by, he and the 'American' had gotten into another dispute. But it should have been of no concern to the American really, it was because of Mathew, the colony that England held still had reign of, that sat above America.

Even if the young country and the northern colony identified each other as brothers, it was no reason for him to throw a fit if the colony got sick. It wasn't even a terrible sickness, not even a sore throat, just a small cold. The colony had been having some problems within himself, with France having pulled back some of his resources to the colony as his country's rulers decided to focus elsewhere.

But no, America had seen the Canada accepting a small aide from England to help ease his sniffles, and then being sent off for the rest of the day to get some sleep. The American had called himself defending the other nation against England's influence and thought trying to seize the other from the British Empire would do either of them well.

It hadn't. England could look at any of his bruises, feel his aches and pains, and then know for certain that if he was feeling this under the weather now, while still in power, then his American counterpart was feigning worse off than him.

Sighing to himself, the English nation forced himself into a sitting position, waiting out the faint tingling of protesting aches that he lie back down, before he moved to stand. By the time that he was standing, the nation thought he could better handle the pain with a swig of the opium that he kept in his bedside drawers. With the medicine acting quickly to soothe his physical discomforts, the nation tried to set about readying himself for the day, as quickly as he was able.

Adjusting the cravat about his neck, and making sure that it hid the slight yellowish discoloration below his collar, Arthur Kirkland left his hotel room. Pocketing the key, as he checked his pocket watch and making his way down the lavishly done hallways, he bid a polite adieu to the lovely lady at the front desk, before he made his way for the meeting to be set in one of the governing buildings in Paris.

As much as the English nation detested the French nation, and though they fought and bickered often, despite the unforgotten scar that England had cast upon France during the French-Indian War, the two nations got along fairly well. If one were to see their bickering in a different light, it would be seen that the two are not more so imposing or bragging their cultures, but defending their country's honor by telling both of their faults as well as their successes.

It can even be said that England might even enjoy the meeting set in France. He liked the various smells that he didn't recognize from his own home and culture, see things that he hadn't made or had influence over. Enjoy being a part of things that normally he wouldn't be able to have access to.

England spotted the French nation by a small bakery, speaking the little baker man there with flour all over his rosy cheeks and his old apron. Calling out to him by his human name, the other nation looked over and greeted with his usual grace, waving the English nation over and offering the other something to eat. After a moment of inner debating on whether he put his aches and pains over his hunger, the English nation decided to choose the safer route and ask for a croissant. After paying for the small eating, the two nations chatted a bit on the way to the meeting, trying to ignore the subtle hints in England's pupils from the opium and how Francis was carrying a small chink in his side from dealing with another country.

Walking into the building of the meeting came as a chill for Arthur, and he shuddered. Francis looked aside to his friend, and then back forward, but he saw no America. Arthur checked too, but upon finding his anxiety to be placed by his medicine, he calmed down and went to seek out other nations to talk to as he waited for the meeting to start.

Prussia was already there, grinning, his feet propped on the table. Russia sat to his left, almost in being friendly, but the way that he was eying the German nation was anything but friendly. Austria was telling Hungary something in a corner, and the woman was frowning severely, wringing her hands and her face was hidden in shadow. Austria said something, and she brought her head up immediately to almost glare at him, but something in pompous German's face made her look back down.

Spain was strolling in, keeping his occupation of Southern Italy known by having said nation sit beside him. The Italian said nothing, but steadily looked for his brother. However the usually happier nation was nowhere to be seen, which was not unusual, unfortunately. Prussia made a look to the Italian, and the poor boy looked almost frightened by the dark look that Spain sent him.

England didn't know the Southern Italian nation well, but he knew fear when he saw it. When the Italian feigned to duck closer to Spain, the English nation saw fear. Manipulation was a very useful tool, he knew, when the manipulated variable was easy to instill fear into.

Prussia removed himself from his chair, and the nation's removal from beside the Russian made everyone took a safe distance away, whether the motion was obvious or not, depended solely on the nation.

"And how is the British Empire addressing this fine morning in the lovely Paris?" Prussia said, trying to sidle closer to England, but the English nation was not fooled and did not let the German stand too close to the knife that he carried on his belt. The German was looking to either pick a fight or to try and seduce another nation or person into his bed, as if either hadn't happened enough for his almost insatiable appetite.

"I am doing well, thank you," Arthur thought to tell the other to leave him alone in German, possibly with a few insults to the Prussian's ships and colonies being set too close to the British Empire's borders to be comfortable; but he said nothing. At least, for the moment, he said nothing. He may have been a gentleman, but he did not hold his tongue for long. Particularly if he didn't see any reason to, he thought to himself, as the Prussian began making circles around the English nation.

Right as Prussia made to make a third circle, America came in. He looked a bit ruffled, but the other had not been sleeping well as of late, Arthur knew. The American saw Prussia, the German looking to be flirting with England with how his face looked and how he was trying to reach for the nation's hand, and the American scoffed. He threw a small look of suspicion over his shoulder, however, not knowing whether or not to watch out for Prussia's advances on England. He knew the both of them were strong, and he didn't need another war. He had taken more than enough damage in the one he had just signed off with, over his interfering with England's colonies.

England frowned at America's retreating back, feeling his chest constrict and ache, in more than just bruising. He excused himself away from Prussia, making the German start in his advances before his face darkened briefly. The English nation walked away from the corners of the room, barely making out Austria's words to Hungary and how the woman was barely holding back an angry choking sob as he gave her an order. The woman kept her head down, as she had been told and forced to do in his presence, and left the room. She did not come back.

England knew that she wouldn't.

The English felt eyes on him, as he saw one of his colonies sitting at their space, the younger male had his hair tied back but a bang was done over the bruising on his eye. He stood as England approached, nodding in respect, and gesturing to the still steaming tea cup beside his satchel and document papers. The colony saw his place as a manservant, more than the young brother that England had tried to make America to be.

"Thank you, Mathew, this will be all for now," England said, taking a seat. Mathew, the colony, sat down beside him quietly, smiling despite the still scratches over his mouth making it seem as if it pained him to do so. England tried to ignore the feeling of eyes burning into his head and imagining the worst possible things to happen to them, as he sipped his tea. The earlier taste of flaky croissant and the tasteless opium was washed away by the sweet tea that Mathew had prepared, even the English nation could still taste the anguish left behind on his mental palate when said boy made himself to look away from his brother's gaze.

There was silence between the English nation and his colony, but in the air around them, there was still chatter and talk. Russia was speaking to China, but the Asian nation was paying him little mind. However, upon Prussia's arrival back to his seat, the German went to charming the Russian. This received an interesting result: Russia looked insulted with each and every other word, going so far as to clench his hands under the table.

A small clink touched upon the floor, and when England put down his tea cup, Mathew was already under the table behind England. The sound of a chair crashing down onto the floor came, along with the sound of a well-made sword coming across a metal pipe. Russia's eyes were furious from what England could only hope to never know, and Prussia was enjoying the fight all too much. The German said something in broken Slavic, and then made to shove forward. Russia did not move back, and growled.

It took several nations to break the two apart before it could get worse, and Prussia was asked to either restrain himself from fights or be kicked out once more. The German promised to civil, by his own definitions, which could only mean that he wasn't going to be even close to any sort of gentleman.

After the brief scuffle, only barely saved from being a crisis, England put away the blade that he always carried, his calm exterior melting back over his stern façade of a promising battle. He went to retrieve Mathew but found him missing; or moreover, the colony was hiding in the arms of his brother. The American was somewhat stiff to hold someone who he so claimed to care about, but Mathew was not.

England called, "Mathew." And the colony turned around with wistful violet eyes, before he reluctantly pulled away. He thanked his brother, and then slowly walked back around the table. He caught the eye of Prussia, and inwardly flinched and ushered more quickly back to his seat. To everyone's near grief, the German sat beside England. Russia sat closer to Austria, closer to America. England said nothing of the arrangement, though he nicked Prussia more than a few times with his blade when his hand tried to reach over his lap.

When it came time for presentations of solutions, America was among the first to raise his hand. His plan was simple, but it sounded effective. He answered questions easily enough, until one was asked about his country's welfare since its wars and confrontations with the 'British Empire'.

All eyes looked to England, but America's and the Mathew. England said nothing, but quietly shuffled his papers and Prussia snickered under his breath. Russia looked on curiously, and one of the Nordics in the back, the only one present, wrote done something. America dismissed the question, saying that his country was doing fine and that a peace treaty had been made to ensure peace.

Someone asked about the bruise on his face. America lied. Mathew looked sick, his hands clenched so tight that his knuckles were white. England said nothing, until his presentation. His was more paid attention to, there were far more questions for him, and the English nation nearly tired himself with answering them all.

When the lunch break finally arrived, Prussia was standing beside England, asking about his sea fare over the past few months. England reminded the German that it was none of his business, and walked away. He looked for his colony, but then recalled that America was present and how the two had been earlier. He deduced that they must have gone to lunch together. He hoped that Mathew would eat this time.

Feeling some shade of forlorn himself, England goes to eat lunch with France. The French nation takes delight in having him as his companion and introduces him to a number of popular eateries. The English nation is almost uncomfortable in his own skin, when he has to order, but he plays it off well and no one seems to notice. However, while the English nation eats and talks to France over several meaningless things and mindless politics, he can't help but to feel eyes on him.

When the meeting resumes, Prussia is absent. So is Russia. Everyone is tense, until there are heavy footsteps outside the door. The once-missing Russian nation says an excuse of having gotten lost, because of his lack of familiarity with the French language. No one commented. Prussia comes back later into the meeting, but he is grinning maliciously. England tries not to think about it, but he worries. When the meeting is over, England is among the first to leave. He gathers Mathew and escorts him to his room, and tells him to lock his door and window, not to let anyone in but him and America, and then leaves the colony alone to make the rest of his time.

England goes to his own room, intending to read over several files as to inspect their contents to see if there is anything worth showing in the next two days to the other countries. But when he comes across his door, he heard shifting. It is nearly unnoticeable, but he heard it, and that is all that mattered.

He checks his lock, and finds it had been cleverly picked. The lock is not even damaged in the slightest, and when he cracked the door, he finds America. The young nation was looking through a folder, scanning the contents and then putting it where it belonged to find another one that he found worth his interest.

"Thief," the English nation called out, and he swept into the room, slamming the door shut. He is immediately at the American's back, who had turned around and was glaring at Arthur as if he had been the one caught wrong-doing. "Get out of my belongings, you have no business there!"

"Says the likes of you," America spat back. "I just know that you and your greedy monarchs are out to start another tryst against me! Admit it!" England is furious. He had not heard of nor done such thing, since he had responded to America trying to seize British territory.

"You sound the like," England began, as he stormed forward, "of the traitorous serpent of Eden! Remove your hands from my satchel, before I remove them myself." There was a sword in England's hands, a very expensive looking one that he was close to baring at America's neck. The Englishman did not like being thieved, nor did he particularly like sharing any space with thieves.

America said nothing, pausing, and then he said, "Do you swear that you do not plot against me? I can kill you just as fast as you can, England." Said nation nodded, and said, "I plot nothing. I have done nothing. Get out of my room."

Without a moment coming too late or too soon, America nodded and then said, "Fine. I apologize for my rash actions. Excuse me, and I bid you a good night." But his facial expression and his eyes told an unsaid message: I am watching you. Do not cross me. I am more of a threat than I seem.

The American rose as gracefully as he could with his own aches and pains, and then walked out. He shut the door, not slammed it, as quietly as he could muster. England did not put his blade away until he heard the footsteps retreating some time later. He kept his sword up, even as he locked the door. His hands were shaking, as he shut the blades. The room went dark in the afternoon, and the English nation could hear the rapid beat of his heart in the silence that had befallen the room. He was alone, but…it didn't feel like it. Someone was watching. There was always someone. He remained vigilant over the room, barely even reading over the papers he had told himself to go over, but he dismissed them, as he simply sat on the bed to watch both the door and the windows. When the nation finally does put his sword down, it clatters to the floor. The nation went with it, but he was not crying, despite the light groan that had escaped his mouth. He was crashing. His opium had caught up with him once again.

* * *

The embodiment of the British Empire, the United Kingdom, and as England, met with his Royal Monarch as often as every few days or at least twice a month. He was usually proud of his Royals, he enjoyed most of their rulings save for the few that he would hardly speak of; but on this visit, he wasn't as happy as he would normally be. His Royals saw this within their nation almost immediately, and the Queen was the first to supply a solution.

"Dearest," she addressed him, and Arthur looked up. He had almost forgotten that he was in the room; he had just been standing guard by their sides, speaking in flat tones over what had transpired over the meetings. He had left out the part about America, but had said that the nation was a bit distressed. Although the King had been slow to feel any sort of sympathy for the American nation, the Queen had always liked Alfred, and had shared a few tears of her own when she had found out of Arthur's attached to the boy. Well, their ex-attachment, any and all said bonds between the two of them were all but nulled by then, if not charged to the highest power of the opposite effect. Instead of love and affection, there was loathing and disappointment.

"I do believe that if we can schedule a meeting between America's…President," her blue eyes crackled at that word, and her lips almost twitched. The King was silent, "And ourselves, perhaps we can come to an agreement of sorts to better sort the two of your relationships' for the better, hm? How does that sound?" Arthur thought over it silently, not wanting to say anything too soon and offend his Royals, and then said, "That would be lovely, thank you, Your Majesty."

He nodded to the Queen, almost able to feel some sort of hope start to rise within him. The female Royal smiled at him, her eyes back to being bright at seeing him closer to being back to his old self. "Now, about that trade meeting with Russia…" She began.

* * *

A letter was sent out to America, intended for his President to read it over and sign it for confirmation for a trade meeting between America and France. However as time passes, there is no news from America. It was growing later and later, the Queen was growing impatient, and Arthur was beginning to get anxious to hear any news. He almost thought something had happened, when on a sudden date, a letter arrived.

The United States of America, and its representative, had refused on the grounds of 'unfair treatment' while 'under an unknown sky and alien soil'. It took several attempts of reading and then several moments in between those attempts, for Arthur to comprehend the news. However, it took much more effort to not rip up the paper and then howl in frustration.

The words of being threatened on 'alien soil' had left more than a sting in Arthur's heart. Even if he told himself that it was dead in all appearances towards Alfred. He couldn't help it. It had just simply…_hurt_.

The Queen, however, was more than livid. She sent back a letter addressing Alfred this time, whatever she had said must have been awful, because the American had never written back. The Royal woman had been all too smug whenever she heard there had been no word of a letter from Alfred responding to hers. Arthur sometimes wondered what she had written, but then thought better of it, and told himself he would much rather not know.

* * *

Months and years passed, several meetings came as they went, and England attended them all. He saw in one of them how Southern Italy was now seeming to look to more people, avoiding France's eyes on more than one occasion, and then turning his back to Spain. Arthur noticed how livid Spain became when he did not acknowledge him. He noticed familiar faces darken and countries fall and rise. He stayed above them all, watching the ex-colony he had once raised. Mathew was much better now, but now he dared not look England in the eyes, for sometimes when he did, America would tap his fingers atop the table. Almost, it would seem, in warning.

The meeting about to begin was in England, and the Royals had more than prepared for it, despite the few financial crunches in the beginning. Alfred had gotten taller again, and this meant that his country was expanding. He was nearly taller than Arthur, and while this seemed to make the American smug; the English nation had reminded him on more than one occasion that being short than your enemy held advantage. One of those advantages were of the times being when the enemy would have had to expend more effort to dodge being dealt a blow.

England shuffled papers at his seat, ready to begin, and glanced at Mathew drawing on separate pieces of paper alongside his notes. While the English nation had no problem with the younger drawing, he would have to hope that Mathew was smart enough to start efficient notes instead of worrying on how to properly draw someone's eyes on paper. When the countries began to take their seats, England was nearly taken for a shock when America sat beside him to his left. England almost thought it was meant to be endearing, but then the English nation saw his sword was on his right side. America had a gun on his side facing England, and a sword to each hip. When the American dared to meet his eyes, England nodded.

America nodded back, and the tension could have been peeled back to reveal the pained relationship beneath it.

Countries stood to present, and America chose to be among the first ones once more. His plans were still simple, but now, they focused more on gaining territory and throwing out enemies and simplifying consequences. Prussia found a lot of interest in the presentation, as did several other power-hungry nations. America kept his smiling exterior, answering questions as they came, and they were many. By the end of his time, even Russia looked pleased with his page of notes. Time passed through the meeting, and when England stood, he noticed how Mathew looked up sharply; the English nation saw desperation in his violet hues and dark bags under them.

During his presentation, he kept his eyes off America at nearly all intervals. But then the American raised his hand for a question. England answered it, simply enough, and then moved on. Mathew was practically shaking in his chair, and when America moved to soothe the colony, England spoke from the front, "Don't touch him. Remove your hands or I will do so myself."

America did not retreat this time, instead, he seemed to instigate more of a reaction by saying, "And who are you to decide how touches him and who doesn't?" England was all but glaring at the American nation. The air was tense. No one moved. Not even the mighty Prussia dared to speak up or move between them.

"I will warn you again: Remove yourself," England threatened, as he made slow and calculated steps to that section of the table. Russia was chuckling in the promise of violence, enjoying the display of aggression in the usually calm nation. England continued, when America did not move and Mathew seemed to be either too torn or too afraid to do anything himself, "Or I will do well to ensure that you can't touch him again."

America rose slowly and calmly, as England approached, with his hands still on Mathew's shoulders. The poor colony was all but trembling with his whimpering, eyes fervent and he looked desperate to escape. England looked about ready to draw his blade, and America had a hand on his own sword and one hand positioned to grab his gun that England recognized a pistol.

The air is thick and tense. No one moved. No one seemed to breathe. All is silent, and finally, finally, something occurs to make both countries take a step back. Mathew is rising, his eyes nearly livid, and he is shaking. "I-I refuse to be any sort of damned prize between the two of you," he snarled. His voice is cracking and shaking, and very close to wheezy, as if Mathew is having a hard time collecting air. "Whatever may incite the two of you to go back to war with each other is by your own sores and with your own blood spilled. But," here Mathew looked to each of the nations standing aside of him. "Leave me and my own people out of your slaughter. We have no wish to fight a battle neither on our own soil nor for our principles."

With that said, Mathew turned around and shoved America as politely as he dared, while still being forceful, and left the room. He slammed the door.

* * *

When England retired to his room that night, he was informed that he had a guest. The young man in the front said that they had not given a name, but had claimed to have his papers to prove that they knew each other. Which meant that Arthur's guest was either another country or the likes of power-hungry or curious noble asking on something or another; either way, Arthur did not want to deal with them. He had just settled an hour of arguing with Mathew, and the younger colony was refusing to be calmed down. While he wasn't livid, he was not his usual passive self and for that, Arthur solely blamed America's influence. The younger was going to revolt, he just knew it. It was only a matter of time. And if America's influence had persisted deeply enough, then it was going to be a bloody war that left Arthur in more than just emotional shambles.

Pausing in front of his door, and about to sigh as he thought he was going to be greeted with someone that he didn't want to deal with – Arthur stopped, just as he was about to grab the knob. There was the soft muffled sound of something almost familiar to Arthur. It took him a moment but he recognized it as the sound of someone trying as they could not to sob aloud. Someone was crying in his room.

The English nation debated whether or not it was safe enough, or even polite, to come in. although it was his room, he didn't want to intrude on something that he wouldn't want someone to intrude on him doing. However, curiosity got the better of even, and he gently turned the lock and eased the door open. Luckily for him, the person in the room had their back turned towards the door, and was still too deeply involved in their sorrow to hear him. But the fact their back was turned didn't hinder Arthur in recognizing them. It was Alfred; the English nation would know that cowlick anywhere.

"I'm so foolish," the American was barely making coherent words on England's side of the room, but all that mattered to Alfred was nothing. He just wanted to go home. He had made a fool of himself, trying to appear with arms in front of Arthur for respect, but only seemingly earning more distrust. He had tried to calm down his brother, but because of the weapons on his person, Arthur had seen Alfred as a threat. They had almost fought in the meeting. Alfred had almost challenged Arthur, until Mathew ran out of there, saying he didn't want anything to do with their problems with each other. The American didn't blame the colony, because that was exactly how Alfred had felt towards French and Arthur, during the French-Indian War. He hadn't wanted to be caught in the middle of it, but he had been.

"I did all of this," Alfred went on to say. "I hurt Arthur and I'm hurting Mathew. I can't do anything but hurt them, and I...I just keep hurting them."

And he had been doing the same thing to Mathew. Forcing him to relive the memories of when Francis was told to leave Arthur's sight, when the English and French nation fought and argued over any and everything, on every off-chance and occasion that they saw each other. Until it had melted down to a declaration of war, and how Alfred had stolen Mathew away to hide in his denser woods, while Arthur's country fought to have control of the colonies. How France had lost, the lives of the nice Natives who gave Alfred and Mathew berries and places to sleep when they got lost in their own land. How Arthur had found them both, yelled at the Natives to move away or be forced out, and then taken the young boys to live with him in a big house they had never known. How they had been left alone more often than spent time with, and how they found themselves growing older and wanting more than just being stuck inside of that big house. They wanted more than to just be on one part of a select piece of land.

"How am I supposed to fix this…?" Alfred asked the room, but no replies came, and the American moves to gather himself to stand. He would have thought England would have returned by now, it was getting dark and the sky was looking to be preparing for a bad storm. He was just turning to leave, when he heard the faintest whisper of air as something moved behind him. He spun on his heel quickly, but he saw nothing. The door was shut. He was still the only one in the room. After a momentary pause, he slumped his shoulders, and went back to his own bed, intending to go to bed early. He had really wanted to talk to England.

He doesn't think to check the door again, to open it and see that said nation was holding both his breath and any tears that should befall him. After a long pause, England comes to whatever sense that he had left and went to seek refuge elsewhere, but first things first; he went to Mathew. When the young colony opened the door, looking still the slightest bit angry, England took the boy in his arms and held him there until he felt the small emptiness in his middle start to be soothed away into nothing but a tingle. He pulled away, almost reluctantly, and then kissed the boy on his forehead, before whispering for him to have a good night, and repeating his warning on locking his door and window. Then he used nearly every drop of his will power to leave the young colony looking shocked in the doorway after him, as he walked away.

The English nation walked around outside a bit, if only to clear his head. The smell of oncoming rain was familiar to him, so usual in his home that it was almost comforting. However, as it looked to be brewing for a worse storm than he had thought, he returned to the hotel. However, he did not go to his room, instead, he passed it to venture to one that he knew France was in. He knocked, and upon a minute's wait, the French nation opened the door. Despite being slightly surprised at the sudden visit, the French nation welcomes England in.

Despite the storm howling outside and its attempts to shake the strong window in vain, England enjoyed the tea and treats that France gave them both to enjoy, while they talked about nothing. France was beginning to grow suspicious of England's almost distant and saddened look on his face, and was about to ask, when the English nation finally gave up. He thanked the French nation for the tea and conversation, and then he excused himself to leave. He had left more than one person confused that evening.

England looked out a window in the hallway, almost enjoying the dark of night with the ever occurring shocking burst of light as lightning struck across the sky. He liked the sight of it. Lightning. He remembered as a child, that he had been afraid of it, had always cowered and hid in some burrow or crawled under his sheets at night in terror. But now, he did not fear it. He was almost enlightened by it. Though its appearances were short, they were magnificent and powerful. England thought to himself that night that he would be just like lightning. He would be bright and powerful, even if he did not last long, he would leave more than one lasting impression on this world.

However to first become like his magnificent lightning, he had to get some sleep. But the loud and booming thunder outside his window of his room and America's restless turning was not helping. The English nation hated thunder. There was nothing inspirational, in his opinion, about thunder. It was just loud. And terribly grating on Arthur's already frayed nerves. Added on, the thunder was making America toss and turn like he was the same frightened little boy who would run to England's bed every night of a storm. But, there would be no more of that, now would there?

So, England thought.

A large crack of lightning lit up the room, and it was so bright that its light was still seen behind closed lids, as it illuminated the whole room. America yelped, right as England gasped, as both were startled awake. The American was more than just terrified, as the sound of the thunder outside seemed to have tripled. The very floor seemed to shaking with its claps, and the lightning would flash and light up the dark night nearly other breath the countries made. England was starting to feel scared himself; this was not normal weather for his country. He couldn't even sense his fairy friends; in fact, he hadn't seen any sign of them since the clouds had stirred.

This was going to be a dreadful night, if not a horrifying one.

With every heartbeat, the thunder sent chills up the occupants' spines and made the younger of the two all the more inclined to flee back to his sunny home where the storms were only quiet sprinkles. English weather was not to his liking. Another crack of thunder, combined with a flash of lightning that sent a group of white dots on his eyes, and that was final. America was rushing to be free of the sheets tangled in his legs, as he nearly fell several times, before he was dashing across the floor and into England's bed.

Said country, whose bed had been suddenly invaded, said the first thing to come to mind when he felt the presence of someone else against him, pulling him close and then trying to wrap their own bodies around his. "Cold feet! Cold feet! Good bloody Lord, you have cold feet, put those away!" While it wasn't the most dignified, or it was more comical than anything else, it was what England said until he could see who was in his bed.

"I'm sorry," the American repeats, his voice nearly cracking, but his words are barely heard at all over the thunder. The lightning sporadically going against his silhouette is more than confusing England, as the American continues to try and hold him despite his struggles. England is now more than irritated; he begins to fight back against whoever is in his bed, not knowing their true identity. He just knew that he wanted them off of him and out of his bed. However, it was proving somewhat difficult, whoever his assailant was, and they were taller than him and slightly bigger. They were also stronger than him, even as an Empire and England had the slightest suspicion that he was dealing with a country.

If this was France, England was going to use the pistol under the pillow, and paint the town more than just red.

"Damn it, Arthur, it's me!" A voice snaps, but the thunder sounds over them and in a trick tactic, immediately England puts down his efforts to be free, but then he resumes them when his enemy lowers their guard. A sound punch to the jaw knocks their head back, and they are sputtering obscenities, and right as England is about to say some right back, his lips are made not to utter another word. Something soft is placed against them, and England is rendered speechless when he recognizes them for what they were. Someone's lips.

When the other pulls away, and for the briefest moment that there is no thunder to overshadow their words; lightning shines bright and Alfred's face is revealed. England, no Arthur, is taken aback. His face flushed, and he is trying to get away from the other, to which the younger male tries to keep him pinned. Arthur is doing more than he had been fighting, as the storm picks back up outside. Alfred's arms are around his waist, and he keeps saying something, but Arthur cannot make them out. The thunder is becoming more than just a slight hindrance to sleep; it is physically trying to mute Alfred whenever he tries to speak.

Just as England is being pulled back into the American's embrace, he is kissed again. And again, and he doesn't want them. Not because he does not care for the American, as Alfred thinks, but because the English nation does not wish to hurt the other in more ways than he already has. He doesn't need another regret brought on by the American; he doesn't need the pain and suspicion, when he is needed to focus on other things. He doesn't want to always have the American on his mind.

But that very same person is doing all in their power to make it so that England can't get away.

Alfred, once more, pins Arthur to the bed. But despite how the English nation is trying to get away, he does accept the kisses. If only to try and get his message across to the American; the cliché message of '_It's not you, it's me_' fits the situation and Arthur's feelings to the very fiber of his being. Arthur wants to get away, but at the same time, he knows he is holding back in his efforts to run away. He doesn't want to get away, he wants to be there and he thinks that he wants what the American offers; but at the same time, he doesn't want the commitment to go with it. The commitment of solely belonging to the American and, in a sense, not solely to himself as he had always been. He didn't want to hurt the American, just because he wanted to try and rekindle what relationship had once been. He doesn't to confuse the other with his words and actions, because he can't get his message across as he wants.

He wants the American, but the troubles to go with it, the pain and suspicion that he will surely get with it, he doesn't want.

Arthur is trying to sneak away, trying to pull away from the American as soon as he can, but just as he can pull away and try to open his mouth to say something, Alfred is claiming it again. The kisses are no longer innocent and chaste, there is a desire building up in the American and he is making efforts to let it show. Arthur is trying to separate himself from the situation, so that he can better control his actions, but…he doesn't want to let the moment to slip past his fingers completely so soon.

Before he can pull away again, despite how the English nation should have anticipated it, he feels a warm hand on his chest. He can warmth through his shirt, and although he knows what it means, knows what the other tis trying to do, he didn't fight him. Why he didn't fight the American more than before, he might not ever know, all he knows is that at that precise moment when he should have fought the hardest – he didn't. Instead, he kissed the American back as hard as he dared, even going so far as to press his tongue across the other's lips. It was merely an offering, an invitation to an invitation, and the American more than took it. Alfred tried to dominate it.

Feeling the warm hand start to unbutton the shirt, and slip against smoothed and scarred skin; Arthur almost hesitated. He almost pulled away. He almost stopped altogether, and restarted his efforts to be free. He almost stopped himself from hurting Alfred again. But then, for a brief moment, he forgot why he had fought against it all in the first place, when he thought that this was what he wanted; and he lost the perfect opportunity to leave. There would be no turning back from this moment, he realized. He couldn't believe he was going through it. But he knew. He knew why he was going through with it. He wanted a chance to be forgiven. Even if the chance was damned from the start, he wanted a moment or two to believe he could have right in choosing this.

When the American moved his hand across his chest, Arthur let him. When the other tried to open his mouth, Arthur took the invitation and it was more than he expected. Even though the kisses were those of a virgin, sloppy and either pressing too hard or too softly, they still held the weight of being genuine; they were a genuine effort made by Alfred. Although Arthur shouldn't have been surprised, Alfred was but a boy, he couldn't help the slight shift he gave underneath the American, as he tried to show him what it was to really kiss someone. This time, when their lips met, with Arthur in charge, the kiss went far more beyond what Alfred had initiated. This time, when they kissed, there was friction. Delicious friction that ran electricity through both of their veins, Alfred caught onto Arthur's lip movements and was indeed a fast learner. He had Arthur moaning into his mouth in less time than it took for Alfred to moan in his.

In the background of their kissing, the storm outside was raging on, and it sounded like it was being fueled by their efforts. Whenever one made a particularly loud moan, held an audible gasp, the thunder would rush it out. When they could no longer find each other's lips in the dark, and were going for the nearest exposure of skin at each other's chest and collars, the lightning would illuminate the room and thus their faces would connect in the more lewd of ways.

However, it isn't long before a brave finger trails down the middle of his partner's chest to be met with opposition from a certain article of clothing. In all honesty of the moment, Arthur was more than just frustrated at the pants; he wanted to shred them, he wanted to rip them, he wanted to throw them out the window, anything to get rid of them. When Alfred leaned back to let the Brit all but tear the belt off, the younger was more than ready to return the favor by tearing the Englishman's shirt. It was only fair.

Growling a bit at the loss of a shirt but putting it aside, Arthur worked on bruising the American's lips with his own, trying to both enjoy and memorize the feel and taste of them. Alfred tasted of his last meal, something sweet; but farther underneath it, the boy symbolically tasted of freedom. He was wild, and Arthur wanted nothing more than to spend centuries, eternity if that was it, to tame him. Finger roaming all over the other's skin, and mouths tasting every inch of skin available to them, it was only a matter of time before neither could take the friction and borderline painful desire between them. However since Alfred seemed at a loss as to what to do, Arthur took the initiative. He took Alfred's free hand and begun sucking on three of the five digits present. Saliva might not have been the best lubricant, but the look on Alfred's face would more than make up for it. The American could only watch in lustful awe, feeling the other's soft tongue wrapping and swirling around his finger.

Guiding Alfred's hand to his hip, the American took the hint and pulled the other's undergarments down, and when that hand was settled firmly at his waist, Arthur guided the now prepared fingers to his entrance. He teased both Alfred and himself, as he pressed the American's finger across the pink rosebud, pressed but not entered. The pink bud twitched, and Arthur almost gave in and tried to hurry up to get to the main event, but the look on Alfred's face. It made his self-control stronger, as he took his time in pressing it in. it held a pleasant burn, and he wasn't the only one who felt himself getting impatient. Even with just one finger slowly delving inside of the Brit, Alfred looked so ready, so eager to claim Arthur as his.

Trying to make sure that his insides were covered, before he let Alfred took the reins, did Arthur then hurry; he managed to prepare himself and keep the American eager for more. Between heated kisses, the lightning and thunder that made everything that much more intense, and the fingers inside of him; Arthur almost didn't know what to expect more of the night. Well, that is, until he had to guide the American over to him for the main event, and Arthur had the briefest worry in wondering if maybe that three fingers weren't enough…

Nevertheless, he kept his mouth shut, trying to wait for the burn to subside, as he clenched his jaw. It had been a while for him, since he had last taken the position of bottom, and he was now remembering the consequences of going without for so long. He almost thought he was the only one in the slightest of pain, until his focus began to focus, and he saw Alfred whimper and shake atop of him. The boy had a fierce look in his eyes, his brow was beginning to sweat, and he was gritting his teeth. Blushing a bit, Arthur tried to loosen up a bit, forgetting that it might have been a bit painful for Alfred, and although the boy's face did not visibly change, his body language told Arthur was much more comfortable.

But maybe it hadn't just been the tightness that had Alfred so pained in the face, as he choked out, "D-damn it all, Arthur, please forgive me." The Brit was given only the briefest of moments to hear what was said without being given a chance for his mind to catch up, before the American suddenly dived deeper within his inner caverns. The Brit bit his bottom lip to hold back from screaming, although some noise escaped him and Alfred, but luckily the thunder came back to drown them both out. The only thing that saved Alfred from a sound throttling at moving too soon was the fact that where he was angled: Right at the sweet bundle of nerves that made the pain nearly erased from Arthur's mind.

It made the command of, "M-move," all the more easily to say. Arthur had seen stars. Past tense; and he wanted to see them again. And again. He wanted to see those stars until he couldn't remember his name or even his guilt, until the sun rose and reminded him that it was a new day. But for now, in the dark night, with the thunder and lightning raging outside, Arthur set to memorizing the night the best he could. Alfred was only barely an inch from breaking the poor headboard, and Arthur was only a mere breath away from reaching his sexual peak. If the Brit had to guess, he wouldn't have pegged Alfred as a natural, since he had been so clumsy and awkward in the beginning. But appearances were indeed deceiving, because he was seeing the stars he so craved, and the feeling the intense waves of pleasure rolling off of his nerves and giving him a near case of whiplash. Damn it all, if Alfred had been a virgin; because, for all Arthur could comprehend, Alfred was a natural.

The American was hitting the spot just right, not too hard to be painful, but hard enough to make Arthur feel it at the base of his spine to the tips of his toes. When the stars became incomprehensible commands of more, Alfred kissed the lips still and gave what Arthur demanded was delivered. The thunder engulfed their moans and calls; the lightning made every crevice and dip, every scar and mark all the more demanding to be touched, the need to touch and reach out to one another was irresistible.

When Alfred came first, with a shudder, inside of Arthur, and still kept up the same rough pace; the Brit was barely a second behind. His release came harder than he had experienced in a while, over his and Alfred's stomachs. He fell back on the pillows, his sweat-laced hair in his face in his face and covering the most of his emerald eyes until Alfred brushed them away. The American kissed him one last time, but instead of still full of heady desire, it was soft.

"I love you, Arthur," Alfred admitted. "I always have."

Arthur stiffened, despite how Alfred had gently pulled out of him, and was now cuddling into his side. The storm was forgotten from both their minds; Alfred, because he had quickly surrendered to sleep, and Arthur, because he was terrified to do the same. What would he say? What could he say? Did he say it back? Did he risk ripping the calm apart with his words? Did he break down what little progress had just been made? How many barriers had he just broken by surrendering himself to lust? How many more sleepless nights and guilt-filled days did he just give himself?

Where was the end that had been supposedly in sight?

* * *

Arthur awoke as England, the proud and mildly prickly country who held more than half the world in his grip as he known throughout to be heart of the British Empire. He did not wake up as Arthur, and for that, he was almost grateful. He could play off his emotions. He didn't have to recognize those he did not choose to. He could act as if nothing had happened. He could break Alfred's heart once more, and remind him of the cruelty of the world.

Why couldn't life be simpler, with more merciful swipes to Arthur's already guilt-burdened soul?

Sitting up was difficult, but not impossible for him, as he looked around. He didn't see Alfred, but when he looked at the clock, it was still breakfast time. The meeting wasn't for at the very most, three more hours. England had just enough time to rid himself of the stickiness between his legs and wash his mouth of the sweet words that were leaving a cavity in his teeth, whenever he thought about them and what he was going to Alfred, err, America. If England went through his plan, then there was possibly going to be never an utterance of the American country's human name ever escaping his lips. Not unless he wanted to crippled for it. The young country was more than capable of revenge, and he would have every right to be angry.

With himself all but submerged underwater, England looked outside the small but pretty window to see the less than pretty sight. The world was grey. It wasn't raining anymore, but the sun was nowhere in sight. What irony.

Getting ready for the meeting took more effort than Arthur thought. He wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed, and wait for the presence of last night's familiar warmth to find him and keep him company. But alas, he would have to keep himself cold, as he tried to button up. He skipped breakfast, seeing the time, fearing being late. When he arrives there, he almost it, and although some look at him strangely because of it, he ignores them all.

America is sitting beside his chair, and little Mathew seems a bit puzzled by the look of anxiousness clearly written in the corners of his brother's blue eyes. When England takes his seat in the middle of the brothers, no one really pays much attention to how America is all the happier by it and how Mathew almost joins him. However, they do see the darkness littering in the English nation's eyes, and most do well not to say anything because of it.

Come his time for presentations, England does not visibly acknowledge anyone's presence, although he does meet their eyes. He dared them to say something, anything, just a single word so that he could vent his turmoil through his hands. But no one said anything, and instead it was kept of him. It boiled and bubbled but was, for now, safely bottled up. When he sat down, he met the eyes of Russia, who held his gaze for the longest of them all. The Russian looked puzzled, and then he looked to America, who was presenting. Upon seeing how dark England's eyes became at his action, Russia broke eye contact and feigned paying attention.

No one else dared to meet his eyes after that.

When the end of the meeting arrived, England remained behind a bit to give Mathew a few instructions on how to get home from France, what boat to get on and when said boat would leave. He told the boy to hurry along, and pack his things, that he would see him at his home soon and then saw him out of the door. He went back to seat to gather his belongings, and saw America there. The young country opened his mouth to say something, but England doesn't give him the chance. He grabs his things, his face nearly burning at the cold and his eyes pricking too. But England told himself it was from the cold outside.

Even the stabbing-like pain in his chest; they were all from the bitter cold.

* * *

While knowing that majority of the other nations were going back home, England hides in a warm bakery, trying to enjoy the little hums that the old woman behind the counter was making as she laid frosting on pastries. England tried to justify himself in sending America home, with not a word, but he was surely failing despite his efforts. He had tried to write, so that the other would know that he wasn't completely heartless, but whenever he tried to write, he kept going off the same line…

_I fear that,…_

_Forgive me,…_

_I deeply apologize,…_

_I hope that you will understand,… _

_This was not what I intended,…_

Each one was thrown far more quickly into the trash than the last. Especially the last one, he had asked to throw that one personally into the baker oven's flaming depths. He had watched it burn, and then tipped the woman extra, as he did a hasty departure. He wanted to be as far as he could possibly get. He made quick business with France and his Royals, trying to give the illusion of half-hearted chatter when all he wanted to do was go home.

He just wanted to go down to his home, and never come out again into the light. He didn't want to show his face. Not if what he first saw were the tears on America's face. He had tried to tell himself long ago that it had been the rain, when he had fallen to his knees, but he had known what the liquid on his face for what it truly was. He didn't want to see those on America's face. Never his perfect face.

As time passed, and England began to retreat far more into himself than normal, his Royals became concerned. He wouldn't answer them directly on what was doing, but he told him that it was battle that he was fighting alone. A battle he fought as a human, not a country, for once. Because a human, he had no Empire, he had no title or fancy royalty, he was only a simple man trying to sort his thoughts and emotions within himself. But it was a battle that he was quickly losing, as more time wore on and he received no word from Alfred at all.

There were many nights in which he barely got any sleep at all, the nagging doubts keeping him awake, when he wanted nothing more than to be free of them. He begins to grow snappier, sometimes irritable at the slightest mistake such as too much sugar or the wrong season of jam in his tea. He found himself loathing the rain more than he ever had, startling awake every time the thunder burst upon his ears and the lightning danced in his window. He felt they were mocking him of that night, that night he both treasured and wanted nothing more to forget if only to rid himself of the seemingly endless torment and nightmares in the day.

What was worse was that although England sometimes went without food, he gained weight. It wasn't anything drastic, such as a whole belly, but only a small bit over a long stretch of time. He would pick at his food, and if he was lucky, he might eat half of the plate given to him, and then he would excuse himself. A little while after that, he would get sick. Well not necessarily sick, but he would smell or taste certain things and vomit. He felt ill at the faintest remnant of the smell, and his Royals grew worried. He was paler than what his rainy climate inclined him to be.

It was when he was scheduled to have a brief meeting with Russia in his country on trade arrangements, before his routine check-up on Mathew; that he became the very worst shade of green he had ever been. His throat constricted, his face was devoid of color, as he dashed from the room. Russia called after him, asking what the matter was, but the English nation could not answer him. The meeting is called to an end early for the day, as England is sent to recover in bed; and while the English nation does get back on his feet, he is still not completely healthy. He is still pale, and can't even finish the half of the plate he had before.

England's Royals almost call off the meeting to see Mathew, but the nation persuades them otherwise. That very long voyage felt longer, and England feels almost better as he gets closer to the North American shores. In fact, he feels so much better, that he is hungry. He is walking from the ports, in search of a nice place to get a bite to eat after enduring what the ship called meals, when he catches sight of blue eyes and blonde hair. He turns his head quickly, his heart racing and thudding in his ears. Had it been? Could it have been? Was it?

But the face comes back and revealed itself to have been nothing more than Mathew. His eyes had seemed blue from a distance. He waves to England, almost happily, and the English nation puts aside the lump in his throat to gather himself and move along. He greets the boy after so long, and they talk a bit in the town. Mathew shows England to a nice eating establishment, out of manners, without the older nation having to say a word. He is grateful, and he is even happier when he can see the white bottom of his plate when he is finished.

He is shown to the familiar room in Mathew's house, where the younger treats him with tea and conversation. It was a lovely afternoon, settling into a comfortable night without any sign of the illness that had tormented the older nation for the past week. Not even a sniffle or cough. Well, that is, until around midnight of the next day. England found himself awakening to horrid pains in his middle; almost enough to make him wish that he could hurl the agony from his chest. But he couldn't. He didn't know which was worse: the vomiting sickness or the indescribable cramps.

"Art-err-Mr. England? Are you alright?" Mathew was worriedly, wringing a cold cloth and putting it the other nation's fevered forehead. The older blonde grunted, and the colony bit his lip. "Do we need to get you to a hospital? Should I call for a doctor? Should I-?"

"Stop talking," England groaned. He had a bad headache now, as if a blacksmith had mistaken his head for a sword waiting to be flattened. The blacksmith was heavy-handed too, and held more power behind his hands than the English country should be appropriate in sword forging. The sword was supposed to be flat, not bent over the table from such force. Taking a deep breath, and then another, the older nation finally managed to declare that he wanted to just stay in bed for a while. England couldn't go home like this; he didn't even think he could stand up. Not to mention how he didn't know how he was going to explain his sudden symptoms to his Royals. They would not be pleased, anything but pleased, and would likely lock him up to monitor him like some kind of curious cattle. Yes; England would stay. There was no reason to travel back home just yet.

He was lying in bed for only a few hours, when the pain increased, as if in response to something. England held his breath, sweat breaking out, as he lay still. Just as suddenly as the pain had come, it left even sooner. Taking in gulps of air, and nearly rolling into a ball at the curious emptiness that was littered through his nerves where the pain had once been. But now, there was a fullness that had not been there. It was like being full from a good meal, and yet, England felt hungry. He hadn't been able to eat all day, and while earlier he wouldn't have done more than groan at the thought of trying to eat anything; he was suddenly starving for anything like a good piece of meat.

Oh, but wait, at the mere thought of drinking tea, he wanted to vomit. Something was terribly wrong. The smell of said drink was wafting throughout the room, from where Mathew had set down some for England, and the other nation wanted nothing more to throw it out the window for all it was doing for him. He hadn't even tasted it yet, and it was already making him sick. Thinking it could only be a trick of his subconscious, and that he was only feeling repulsed at a certain kind of tea, England took a tentative sip of the one Mathew had set beside him.

He was at the trash pail, in less time than it took for a painted whore to earn her living.

His stomach was empty however, besides the tea, and England could only barely manage the pain-filled dry heaves. He struggled to pull away, to drag himself back to bed and then lay there. Something was wrong with him. Something terribly wrong. He didn't know what it could be, there were so many possibilities, and yet, there was nothing that made sense. The entire situation made no sense. He should be healthy right now. There was no reason for him to be ill; he should be at the peak of his health.

Voices drifted in from the hallway, as England tried to doze off into a nervous fit of sleep. He could hear the soft and accented voice of his colony, Mathew. There was someone else, Mathew was talking to someone else, and they sounded familiar. Was it the Frog? No wait, England had banned him from coming onto the shores without his permission, and the Frog was in no position at the moment to go against him. Brow furrowed, even in sleep, as he tried to figure out who else it could be. Then the realization came, just as their voice came closer and Mathew's rose in a warning tone –

"I don't know what is wrong with him…" Mathew began, and there came the sound of the door opening. England started to wake up, eyes moving underneath his eyelids as he tried to shift a bit to get in a more comfortable position. There was a knot of tension starting to form in his lower back. But it was to no avail, the bed was propped against the wall and the head of the bed faced the door directly. Whoever saw him, there would be no mistaking his face. "Now, wait, no! You can't go in there!"

"Arthur?" There was that voice, his voice; England almost thought he was hearing things. It couldn't be. America was a country away and England was with his colony, Mathew…Where said colony was only a few hours of riding from America's home in the upper part of his states. It was him. It was America. Alfred.

Brow twitching in his restless sleep, as he tried to wake up, when the oddest thing happened. Cool fingertips touched his still fevered forehead, and for the first time since the week prior, England felt the overwhelming urge to vomit. The need was so powerful that the English nation barely made it to the pail, tripping over his own toes and the bed sheets, as he went. This time, however, he really did vomit. He didn't know where it came from, but it come from his mouth, and it hurt like Hell.

"What in the Hell…?" America started, and he was reaching out to grab England by his shoulder. But the older nation wrenched his shoulder away, grimacing, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn't care if it wasn't very proper. He was slowly crawling back from the pail, his eyes wide and seemingly unseeing. His lips are pulled thin, and the Brit is shaking his head in an almost defying manner. Mathew is the first to say something, only beating his brother by a mere moment.

"Mr. England, is everything alright?" Mathew begins to ask, when America looks back from the pail to Arthur, blue eyes wide and his face pale. The American is quick to usher his brother out, with commands to get a specific kind of medicine, as the young country tries to put England's unresisting body back on the bed. While England tries to mentally recover, slowly but surely, America tries to rinse the evidence away.

The ground where he does so is red with blood.

Neither told Mathew anything, the English nation still in shock and mentally going over his colonies and territories. He couldn't be dying. He couldn't be fading away. There was no way. Meanwhile, America is trying to read a book. The words blur before his eyes, but it helps to make him appear calm and sure. The faux idea helped England to regain his calm, at least enough to say something. But he keeps repeating is, "It can't be now. Lord, don't let it be now. It's too soon. It can't be now." His voice is a whisper, but one thick with worry and regret. America tries to take the other's hand, but the English nation shows no sign of being comforted by its presence or warmth in his clammy hands.

As the light outside the window dimmed down to twilight, and England is finally put to sleep by the medicine that Mathew had fetched, America walked out of the room. He looked like he had forgone food and water for several days, had had no sleep for some time, and looked to be several decades older. He was shaking his head, and when he saw Mathew trying to approach him, he turned him away and went to the room that he used when he visited. He locked his door, and there for the first time since the Revolution when he had thought his life was leaving behind his epicenter in the stinging rain –

America, Alfred F. Jones, cried.

* * *

Anyways, hope everyone enjoyed! A big thanks to my beta, even if she did cuss me out several times for the length of this fict! I still love you, hun, even if you promise to throttle me for giving you something this big when you work over 30+ hours a week. (I still work more than you, babbu. You can't top me in this. WE IS ONE FAMILIA.)

Oh, and I don't think I've ever said this but…I am a firm believer that Canada/Mathew is a badass motherfucker. Just like Finland. I also believe that whenever England bottoms, he does it with manipulation. So that even if he is on bottom, he gets the most of it and he still tops in a psychological sense. Because that is how England rolls. He is the very anthem of a NO-SHET-HAVING-GENTLEMAN. *Hetalia gang-sign*

**READ AND REVIEW!**

I wonder if anyone saw the many history references littered throughout this entire fict. This is between everyone, not just through the USUK, but around everyone. Did anyone catch the most obvious ones or the most painful ones (FEELS-wise)? [Ah, Hetalia. Making World History all the more tear-inducing since its creation.]


	2. Chapter 2

**Forgive, But Do Not Forget**

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **It felt like it could only be worse, as the life and relationship of two males is twisted sharply from whence it started. Both are met with each other's initial coldness, and while one simply waits out the other to thaw, the second male finds that he has a new way to be kept warm. USUK. For ilovezim123.

**_BrooklynBabbii_**

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**Recommended Listening: **"Familiar Taste of Poison" by Halestorm; "Untraveled Roads" by Linkin Park

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Time went on, as it always should, and by then, England had returned home to his rainy country. He said nothing of his episode overseas; however the memory haunts his nightmares, along with the images of America doing the same. The English nation still feigned to carry himself as he normally would. He walked straight; face held high and commanded those below him. He addressed his Royals as regularly as it could be helped, and then some. He kept his Empire from disarray and failure. He did not show weakness.

He had few spells of illness. He might vomit a bit from what he had eaten the night before, if it had smelled unpleasant, but he found that if he ate something sweet that he felt better afterwards. England had gained even more weight now, and although having some extra weight was thought to be a sign of being wealthy, England knew that he wasn't eating enough to have gained so much over such a short span of time. He also tended to be outside more; even if it was raining. He would stand on his balcony or his porch, and just listen to the world around him. It was so familiar and yet so new to him, each time he went outside. England found that his fairy friends were a lot more inclined to follow him as well. The fairies were hardly a second behind him, when he entered a room and hardly a breath after him when he left. Even if he told them to shoo, he could still feel them there all the time.

There was also one more surprise: America came to his country more often, and he wrote when he couldn't.

Despite finding some peace with the American's presence now, more than he thought was normal, he still feared the visits. He anticipated letters, reading them several times, and always trying to find some remark or comment or anything to make him that the young country was thinking to hurt him. But he never found any. In almost of his letters, America wrote that he couldn't wait to see Arthur again. He never addressed the other nation as a country, but as a person. He even signed his signature as Alfred, with a '_Yours Truly'_. It both made the older nation's float and sink in his chest.

It was on particular visit that when Alfred came onto England's shores, his feet having just touched the dock; that over at the palace, England immediately snapped his head to the west. There was a strange sensation in his breast, like his heart was on fire, but when he looked outside…there was no smoke. He smelt the air. Nothing. He looked anxiously for any kind of invaders, but saw only peace and, for the most part, harmony in his people. No one was running from Vikings, or calling out for help. There was no indication of trouble.

"Dearest, are you alright?" The Queen asked, as her nation came back from the window, looking both anxious and confused. The English nation started to nod his head, and then frowned. He shook it, and then asked as politely able, "May we continue this with the window open, Your Majesty?" With a look to her husband as to give an argument, but the old man said nothing, allowing pass. The Queen nodded, and with the window open to let in a cool breeze that England used to keep him focused on the here and now, instead of the feeling in his chest, the meeting went unhinged by any other problems.

It was when England was going to retire to his rooms that he received word of something that should have been brought to his attention far earlier. A servant told him that a nation's official, they had a country representative with them, had touched down just a few hours prior in the afternoon. England was shocked to say the least, he hadn't been informed of any meetings with anyone in Europe, and just as he thought that, he remembered that America wasn't part of Europe. It was possibly America, but if so, what was he doing in England with an official?

The English nation thanked the servant and bid him on his way, and went in search of his rooms. He held his breath, as he let himself in, but found no one in the sitting room where he had expected America and his official to be waiting. However, a small clatter came from his dining area, and when he walked in; he saw America drinking from a glass of ale. The young country immediately blushed at being caught drinking, and then stammered, "I-I don't usually drink so late in the day, I was just thirsty, and this was the first thing I saw, and –"

England held up a hand to silence him, face emotionless, but his eyes not angry, as he said, "It is fine, git." The English nation frowned, as he listened and searched the room for the other's representative. America saw the older nation looking for another person, and shifted in his seat. He used his finger to rim the glass, before he took a strong sip, and then wrinkled his nose when the smell hit his nose. He felt more than heard England's question, as the chills going up his spine. America turned in his seat, licking his lips.

"Ah, about that, I asked that he stay in a hotel," America admitted, and then sheepishly added on. "I told him my boss had made other arrangements as to where I would stay." At the sheer look of fire in England's eyes at that, America winced in on himself. He didn't think that the other would be so mad that he was staying in his home, it should have been normal by now, right? Why was the other so moody as such a small detail?

America tries to stand, but the other nation's words nearly freeze him in his tracks, "Why would you lie to him? Why would you keep coming here? What is there here for you? What am I to you? You are so confusing." The younger can do nothing more than just blink, as England continues to just say things, as if said person wasn't even there to hear every word. "You used to hate me; I used to have to fear another war. You would never meet my eyes; you tried to steal your brother from my arms. You ran away from me, held a weapon to my head, you had every opportunity to wipe me off the map…And you didn't, why?"

There was silence. Then the fire came back into England's emerald eyes more than ever. America was taken aback at the sheer volume of the older male's voice, "Who in the bloody Hell gave you the right to rob me of my sleep? Who told you to riddle my dreams with nightmares, and snatch my ability to eat? What have I ever done to you to have ever warranted fearing the loss of everything I have worked to earn, to have," America had more than hardened his eyes at those words, as England continued, "And for you to steal like the deceitful and manipulating bastard that you are?"

The sound of the chair meeting the floor and America yelling back, "Who are you to call anyone a deceitful and manipulating bastard, _Arthur_?"

The sound of his human name, spoken at such a tone, awoke England from whatever had possessed him to say his harsh words. But he was given no chance to repair or undo the damage he had done, when America was suddenly reaching for him. In some part of the English nation's mind, he feared being hit by America, by Alfred, that it would sting much more than even the hottest cattle brand upon his skin. However, instead of hitting him, the American took the Brit into his arms and held them there with an excruciating force.

"I will not repeat myself, Arthur," Alfred whispered, but the Brit was far from listening. He was too stunned by the warming in his middle, which had not been originally there, prior to America coming into his country and then angering him only to hug him afterwards. The sensation was peculiar, however, it was if there was something shared between the two of them…and-

England shoved the American away, blushing madly, as he held his middle. A small realization was coming to him, and though it made no sense at all, at the very same time, it explained everything. The inability to eat, his moodiness and his pains, they were all explained by the most absurd thing. And yet, it made sense. But this was not to say that the English nation particularly enjoyed the realization. On the contrary, he was more than upset with it, and by default, Alfred as well. It was his fault too, and the bill to pay back all of his anguish was going to be paid.

The Brit was going off in an ungentlemanly manner, swearing like the pirate he was, and stomping around his house. It took the American a minute to regain himself, thinking he had been rejected, before he reassured himself that he hadn't been and went to find the one he had unintentionally sent away. He called after the other, "England? Arthur, where are you? I still don't know my way around your rooms…"

A barked reply and the sound of a glass breaking led the American to the sitting room, where he found the Brit seemingly pouting in one of his larger armchairs. By his side was a glass of scotch, but it was untouched. Upon seeing where the other's blue eyes walked to, the English nation grit out, "What? I can't drink it now." Puzzled, the American's face clearly asked the question; to which the Brit's face burned bright red in the room, as he muttered something.

Coming closer, the American said, "I'm sorry, but I didn't hear you." England muttered the same sentence, but still it was incomprehensible. By the third time of England snapping at the American, the young blonde blinked and then blinked again. He was about to blink a third time, when he chose the wrong thing to say at the perfect moment to say something reassuring, "…And here I simply thought you ate more when I wasn't there to see it."

The glass of scotch just barely missed his face, but the chorus of colorful insults in both English and Latin met his ears very well.

* * *

After much thought and planning on Arthur's part, more promises of silence and compliance from Alfred, the pair made a pact to keep the secret for as long as they could. No one could know that England, or more correctly, Arthur, was carrying a child. It would be madness. Countries would seek the child for power and leverage. Arthur, himself, could be used as bait or as a sort of prey for countries tired of being on the bottom of the World News. Alfred would be in trouble as well. He was the other parent, and also the father, after a small and angry defensive claim said by Arthur; but the young country was not ready for a child. He was but a child himself! Nonetheless, countries would seek to get to Arthur through him; Alfred was also prey to danger.

It was a good thing to keep it secret for now, until Arthur could not properly hide it, as he was still not showing despite the nearly four months that had passed. Alfred had proposed using a corset to hide the growth, but after a few biting words and a stern glare, he had dropped the suggestion. In between suggestions to hide it, however, Alfred had taken to holding the Brit as often as he was allowed to. He liked to feel the hard mass being protected under Arthur's skin. He liked to think that the unborn life, that he had helped to create, could hear his voice and recognize it from others it heard. Whilst Arthur never said anything to deter the American from doing so when they were in private, he was very strict on anything seeming overly friendly while they were in public.

Arthur did not hold the other's hand, if they went out. He wore what he pleased, despite how Alfred would bring him expensive fur and very warm fabric coats from America. He ate when he was able to, sometimes outright denying Alfred the right to voice his opinion on the Brit's taste or cooking. Arthur found himself the very definition of a successful actor, when he was in public and he acted as if Alfred was only his American business partner or such. His Royals never suspected anything different, and he hid himself the most carefully while he was in their presence. Underneath his proud and confident exterior, the Brit was terrified of what his Royals would say. It would be one thing if the people were unsure, because then the Royals could assure them that nothing would hurt him during the pregnancy and that nothing would have to change about the public's daily lives. However, if the Royals were against him, they could nearly do anything that they chose. The Prime Minister might even allow them to kill the child.

Those nightmares were awful. It made keeping the secret all the more harder and all the more powerful, in Arthur's mind. He didn't want nor would he allow anyone to bring harm to his child. They would have to put him out of the way first, and Arthur already knew that he was no easy stone to knock over. He would fight, tooth and nail, until the end. And even if he started to hesitate, there was still Alfred to think about. There was no telling what the American was capable of, when he was angry. Arthur both wanted to find out, and never know, if only for the sake of keeping the image of Alfred somewhat pure in his mind.

But amidst the continuous public appearances and hiding their shared secret, the couple grew closer. Alfred's touches to Arthur's middle went up to his cheek, before his lips would grace the place that his fingers met. In the few times they were alone, Alfred was at his most tender and Arthur found himself falling harder for the American. He wanted nothing more to push down his guilt and regret from over the years to truly enjoy it; but then a small pain in his middle would remind him of their predicament and he would hold back. He tried to savor the little kisses to his cheek, the slight brushing of their hands when they walked pass each other, but he longed selfishly for more. He didn't want something brief, anything that he could blink and never see again. He wanted something more to remember, something worth being remember.

But he kept quiet, because Alfred was only doing as he told him to; to keep their time together brief to not arose suspicion. Even the words were more guilt added to Arthur's ever growing train of baggage, he knew he would rather be safe than sorry. But how was this safe for anyone, if the Brit was slowly driving himself mad with every time the American showed his face and made him long for more than he knew was better in the long run.

It was on one day, while he was supposed to be at Mathew's home to gain some information and just see how the young colony was doing; the Brit was enjoying a glass of milk with Mathew while he waited for breakfast to be done. The pancakes had smelled amazing, and despite how Arthur missed tea, he was actually enjoying the milk he had asked for instead, when suddenly the glass was being shattered on the floor and Arthur was lying right beside the sharp fragments.

Arthur's heartbeat throbbed in his ears, his head was being back to being beaten by the once forgotten heavy-handed blacksmith, and the Brit could feel wetness coming forth his mouth as he sputtered on the floor. Pain was inside of his blood, every drop of the liquid, and pulsing through his veins and being pumped by his tormented heart and throughout his body. His form was still, far too stiff, and Arthur barely felt the shard enter his body upon his meeting to the floor. All that he knew was that the milk around him was turning pink, and that closing his eyes seemed like such a bad and good idea.

But he was never really given a chance to close them, as more than voice called out to him. _Loud_. Everything was too loud, and it was hurting. Everything was hurting. His middle hurt the most, especially. But after a sharp pulling sensation, the excruciating pain there was being toned down to a painful throbbing. Someone was holding his head, he couldn't tell who, but they were grabbing at his face. They were calling out to him. They seemed so familiar, but then again…

When Arthur opened his eyes the first time, Alfred was holding him to his chest and crying, he was screaming at Mathew, and there was the smell of burnt food. But Arthur wasn't cooking, was he? No. He wasn't. He was at…someone's house, he wasn't allowed to cook here, he remembered. Whose house was he in? He couldn't remember. His head hurt something awful. Had he hit his head on something? Oh. There was a lot of blood. Whose blood was that? Was that all his? Wow. He could surely bleed. Was he dead? Why wasn't he dead? Wait. He was being carried somewhere. No. He was on something soft. Ow. Someone had pulled on something, was his shirt really that sticky?

Had much he had bled?

Arthur wanted to close his eyes. He was so tired. Sleeping sounded jolly, right about then. He would sleep and wake up and have some of those pancakes that Mathew had been making. Yes, that was what he would do. Ow. Ow. Ow. Someone was doing something. They were doing it rather quickly too, but it still hurt. Was that a needle? What did they need a needle for? Why was their shirt red? Had they fallen and got one of the shards too? Oh good. Now, Arthur wasn't alone. Someone had been clumsy like him too.

With a few other jumbled and mindless thoughts, Arthur closed his eyes. He let himself fall into a heavy sleep, despite how someone was repeating the same thing over and over.

"Don't leave again. Don't leave again. Don't leave again. Please don't leave me alone."

When Arthur opened his eyes the second time, it was to the darkness of night and to the borderline frantic whispering of someone deep in prayer. The Brit groaned as he felt tingles up and down his spine, and a burning in his side. He felt sore in his side, like after surgery. He had been only gone a few times under the knife, and the Brit detested each time. He was afraid of the blade, the power it held over his life and how vulnerable he felt whenever he realized he was putting his life in someone else's hands.

When the shadow in the dark raised his head, his tired blue eyes were dim, but the lit up rather quickly as they met green. Arthur found himself being held to someone's chest, his sore side practically screaming at his nerves and Arthur grunted. With a bit of effort, the shadow was pushed off and the moonlight coming from the windows revealed it to be only Alfred. Although the American looked ragged. He had bags under his eyes, and he looked like he hadn't eaten in a while. The American needed a slight shave and he was starting to smell. He kept wringing his hands, and Arthur saw the bitten down and bloody fingertips. Alfred hadn't really been careful, nor was he taking proper care of himself.

Arthur sighed, rubbing his head, as Alfred just looked at the Brit as if he was the salvation to all he had ever prayed for. "Alfred," the Brit began, despite how his dry throat protested, "Go clean yourself up. You look a rather unsightly mess."

Alfred blinked, and he looked almost hurt, but Arthur cut him off, "I do appreciate you watching over me, as you have, but we don't need you ill in your health too." Alfred was silent. Arthur said no more. There was a pregnant silence, and then Arthur found himself being hugged once more. Alfred was thanking Arthur for waking up, and then he was gone. As soon as the American left, Arthur waited a moment before he checked his side. He was still counting, when someone said, "Thirteen. There are thirteen stitches."

Arthur looked up. Alfred was holding a tray of pancakes and a glass of milk. His eyes were sad. "I had to pull thirteen stitches. You are the last person I would ever want to pull a needle through, Arthur," the young country paused, as he set the tray down by the Brit's side. Emerald eyes met blue, and Alfred continued, "But I would do it again, every time, if you asked me to."

There was another pregnant silence, as Arthur tried to fill the silence with the clinking of his glass. He sipped the milk, finding it warm and spiced just the way that he had always enjoyed. Few people knew his quirks like this one, and Alfred was one of them. Arthur looked away, and whispered, "Thank you…"

"Don't mention it," Alfred said, walking away. He was going out the door, when he looked back with steel blue eyes, "I'm serious. Ever."

The door was shut, and Arthur was left in the dark.

* * *

When Arthur defined himself to get up and move around, he was being watched closely by Mathew. The Brit had found out through Alfred, before he had promptly left after he had cleaned up without much other word, that the Canadian had been sworn to keep their secret. Alfred had told Mathew. Now while, Arthur trusted the colony, he was still bitter about the whole ordeal. Alfred had needed to tell Mathew. He hadn't had to tell her, but just…Arthur had wanted to only keep the secret between only the two of them, so only they would be targeted. Now Mathew was involved, through no fault of his own.

Arthur had confronted the colony about it, and the young blonde had sworn to secrecy. Even Arthur didn't doubt the younger's words or his allegiance; there was the matter that he was involved that made Arthur angry. He had wanted to keep the damage control to a minimum. There was no telling what could and would happen now, with a third person knowing the secret. Luckily for the three of them, Mathew was far from most of Europe and most of Arthur's enemies, and also right beside America. If the Canadian needed help or advice, then there was already a guider and a protector, since Alfred had found it so necessary to tell his brother. He could deal with it, should anything arise. This may seem harsh, but Arthur had put the limit of two people so strict for a reason.

A little after the meeting should have ended, Arthur was arriving home and as soon as he led to his rooms, he was given word that France was seeking a meeting with him. The Brit had a good mind to tell off the servant, but knew the child was only playing messenger. The real thorn in his side was France. The Brit was not going to go easy on the Frenchman, this was his country, and he was going to play the part of being a temperamental pirate if he wanted.

Which was exactly what he did. Whenever France made a point to suggest that their countries join an alliance, the Brit made a point to suggest that the other country solve his own problems without always asking assistance from him. When the French nation tried to bring up the supposed benefits, the English nation made a motion to gag and talk while the other was talking. During the supposed signing of a treaty to promote peace and trade between the two of their countries, the Brit read it over and then made to tear it in half. France saved the paper from such a fate, but he was very put out about the way that the other was acting. Arthur was enjoying himself, looking smug, as the French nation huffed and promised to be back later.

Unfortunately, the Frenchman fulfilled his promise…but at the wrong time. Arthur was being doubled over in pain, while he had been reading in his sitting room. While the pain was not as bad as it had been before, it was no less excruciating to handle and all the more embarrassing to have France help him with. The English nation tried to get the other to stop demanding to know why he was in such pain, but the Frog was stubborn and refused to cooperate. It was only after the pain finally subsided and Arthur kicked the other nation out of his rooms to come back tomorrow, that he was finally allowed a moment of peace and quiet.

The Brit sat in silence for a long time, before he came to any conclusions. He now understood why Alfred had told Mathew. Keeping the entire ordeal secret was proving to be more difficult, especially for Arthur's sake. He was the one in the most of danger right now. He was surrounded by enemies, the father across the world and all alone on his island; that was his situation. Arthur had no one to call for help to, besides the countries within his Empire, but even then, most couldn't just immediately be on his shores the moment he needed them. It could be days, it might even be weeks or months before they received word, let alone come over.

Letting the realization sink in took more time than Arthur thought. Even if America is visiting less, but staying longer, Arthur sometimes sends him away because of a simple argument that was, in nearly all instances, childish and insubstantial. They weren't even worth getting angry over, weren't worth fighting over, and definitely not worth crying in the night over. It was during those times, when Arthur sent the American away, and would later fight to hold in his tears that he saw how similar he was acting now to how he had acted before. When America was fighting to be free. Did Alfred want to be free of him again?

Just thinking about it made Arthur want to apologize ten times over, if it meant that the American would never consider such a thought ever again. England, Arthur himself, couldn't take another heartbreak like that one ever again. No. Never. He would go mad. No, he might do something mad. He might purposely dismantle his Empire and go into total isolation, cutting off all ties to the outside world, and simply hide in the dark alone, until he could remember how to fake his smile and sanity.

But when the American came back to him, act as if the argument had never happened, and it was all of the English nation's fears were weightless and had no real depth. Alfred would always smile and apologize for taking longer than he thought. He boasted of expanding, how he was finding all sorts of things in his country and how happy his people were. He was so happy. He was happy, from the simplest things. If he got to hold Arthur's hand, even if for just a moment, he could be beaming. If the Brit pecked his cheek, he would be glowing. If the other smiled at him, even if it was brief and then he looked away, the American would laugh and then hug him. Alfred loved to kiss him, and even though Arthur still felt pricks of guilt when he did not give back as much as he wanted to, the American was always at least joyous that Arthur had reacted at all.

Alfred was better than what Arthur believed he deserved. He can see it in the other's eyes, how the American is falling for him, and although he is happy…He is also confused. He doesn't know why. He doesn't understand why the American came for him at all. He can feel himself falling back for the other, but at the same time, he is afraid to truly fall. He is afraid of what he will do when he finally does. Will Alfred have him, when the Brit finally warmed to him completely? Will he see it as a challenge overcame or a game not worth playing anymore?

The Brit sighed. It was the time of the year again, time for another gathering of countries under one roof. And that roof happened to be in America. The young country had been so ecstatic to learn that he was going to be the host. But before Arthur could leave, he had to give word to his Royals. He also had to confront them, because it was time that they knew. He was getting far too big to hide, and he doubted they would be pleased to know why he had been sending messengers rather than being in their presence.

Finding a heavy coat, one of which he recognized as one of the coats that Alfred had given him, he finds that it hides his belly very well. He huffed at that, and called for a carriage to be brought around for him. He told the driver to arrange for the Royal palace, and to make haste; not giving an argument, the driver proceeds. During the short trip, Arthur contemplates how he will tell his Royals. There are multitudes of simple ways, but he chooses a more…less faulty option. By the time that the English nation had come to the Palace, he had told himself he was ready enough times to finally believe himself. He still wished for Alfred's hand, as he walked inside.

Now let it be said that it is one thing to tell yourself to _say_ all the right things, trying to plan out every possible fault or mistake that could happen, and so forth. But it is another thing to actually _do_ it. Arthur was finding this meeting to be one of the hardest ones to speak in, in such a long time. Especially, when the Queen kept asking him to remove his coat. At first, the English nation feigned not to hear her, but when the Queen had to repeat herself, he finally blurted, "Your Majesties, there is something that I must address to you, and you alone." The soldiers looked a bit miffed, but left until only the Royals and the Prime Minister were left. It was then that Arthur removed his coat, and braced a hand at the small of his back, and wincing at the pressure there. His feet hurt.

It took a silent moment, and nearly an hour of explaining everything – leaving out the identity of the father, and how the child was conceived in the first place – but the English nation gave his Royals the most information that he could supply. He might have given more than what was needed for the current moment, but Arthur had to be sure that his leaders were prepared. He wasn't going to let them just kill him or his child, because they didn't know or understand the whole story. By the time he had finished speaking, it was early afternoon and the meeting had gone over its assigned end-time.

The King was grinning, and then his booming laughter was bouncing around the walls, the old man tossed professional conduct out of the window of a twelfth story building, as he went to crush Arthur in a hug. The King had joy in his dark eyes, and his greying beard tickled Arthur's head. Said English nation merely blinked, as he caught the sight of the Prime Minister still in shock, but smiling a little nonetheless. The Queen, herself, who had only bore a son, was clapping happily. She was practically bouncing in her throne chair, as she took hold of her dress to join in the hug. She kissed every part of Arthur's face that she could, and then she held him at arms' length, simply beaming down at him. Then, she paused, "But wait, how far along are you, dearest?"

Arthur blinked, and counted along when he believed his symptoms started, "I think about eight months. I'll be nine, come the early start of fall." The Queen nodded, and then frowned. She asked how Arthur would remain at the meeting, if it was going to be in America; notably, she did not ask about the father. The small and barely noticeable twinkle in her eye told Arthur she had a good mind of who it was, as when the Prime Minister proposed an idea and the King turned his back, the Queen mouthed, 'Alfred.'

The meeting stretched a bit farther, as the Queen called for water to be brought for Arthur. The English nation hadn't directly asked for it, but remembering the Queen and her pregnancy; he had an inkling as to why she knew when or not he was in need of something. The Royals had questions, to which Arthur tried to answer as best he could. The King asked about how the countries would react to this, and Arthur said that while he had no absolute answer, he assumed that trade might increase or decrease depending on the country and how they saw the child as: A potential ally or a threat to their power. The Prime Minister asked about how the country would fare, to which Arthur said it would be the other way around. The child would be affected by how the actual island fared versus the child influencing the country. Finally, the Queen asked the most controverting question: The father's loyalty.

Arthur had no answer. He was quiet, and during the silence, he cracked the glass of water. His eyes were distant and dark, and mouth a thin line. In the most polite manner as he could muster, the English nation said, "In all honesty, and I hope that you agree, that as it is his loyalty, Your Majesties, we leave it with him." No one said anything, and the Queen was the first to say something else, "Fine then. If we cannot guarantee his loyalty, I would hope that we can trust that you will raise the child to the best of your ability. We will see to it that a nursery is to be made, by your arrival back."

"We will?" The Prime Minister began, and after a spiked look from the Queen, he almost squeaked and then cleared his throat, "Why yes. We will. Personally, I'm sure." The old man looked uncomfortable in his own skin, all but trembling, as the Queen smiled and the King shook his head slowly. Arthur let go of his tense exterior and his shoulders lost their rigid stance. He went over a few more things that he would do at the meeting, and promised to come back as soon as he was able, unless he was delayed by means not of his own control. A day later, and he would setting sea for the America, and for once, it didn't hurt to think about being back on that original soil once again.

* * *

Walking around town felt almost normal, although he did seem a bit puzzled at some of the words used by the citizens. He didn't understand why they changed the spelling on some of the words from his country, but he had remembered that he and America had left each other on a bad note. Terribly bad note. He could possibly understand some of the differences; it was possibly America's way of coping. Maybe. _But now if the two were going to be an item_, an optimistic part of England tried to think, _then maybe he could influence the other into doing of what they had been doing before –_

_Like taxes_, the more pessimistic side of him countered. Both voices went quiet, as England navigated the busy streets. He ignored the voices and how their silence boasted loudly of the memories that were still very fresh in England's mind, whenever he thought of the American. The Revolution. His Revolution. _Alfred's Revolution, from him_. It still hurt to remember, and England pushed it to the farthest part of his mind. He was glad it was still cold enough in America, being late January, so that he could wear the fur coat. He found that even if he wasn't an absolute fan of fur, like Francis, the coat had some elegance in it. It was very warm and comfortable, although the English nation felt like he had gained ten pounds when he put it on. Ah well, there was always a downside to everything. He could leave with having a few extra pounds, if it meant he was warm in the cold.

Walking into the meeting building was like walking into a room full of piercing eyes, which wasn't right. No one was really looking at him. Most countries were looking about the room or trying to talk to an American servant or another. Russia was inspecting a vase of sunflowers that someone had placed in the room; England assumed that America hadn't known about the Russian's preference for the flower, but had also scored himself some bonus points by the Russian. If not a possible chance of invasion, there was no telling with Russia. Prussia was flirting with an American girl, but she didn't look the least bit interested. France was admiring some of the portraits and adding in some of his own comments on the artwork to Austria, who was doing the same. Hungary was not with him. Spain was drinking wine, and his little portion of Italy looked to be less dark than usual being in the new room, curious brown eyes going seemingly everywhere. A Nordic in the corner of the room was watching everyone silently, but he looked slightly uncomfortable in the warm room.

England walked to his seat, bypassing Russia who looked up and greeted him more happily than he usually would have. The English nation dared to wave back, and then continued walking. Russia went back to admiring the flowers, one of which that he picked up from the vase and took to his seat to admire there. France saw the English man settle in his seat, and how Mathew was already trying to fuss over his glass and a small package of caramel candy. The Frenchman was immediately suspicious. He knew that for a fact, the English nation would always prefer tea over any other drink given to him. But here was said English nation taking down the glass of milk like a man straight out of a desert. _Curious and curiouser…_

Deciding the best choice of action was to simply go over and investigate, the Frenchman did. England saw him coming, and sighed; it was much too early to be making another meeting, in his opinion. Or at the least, that was what he thought France was coming over to talk about. If the Frog came over, asking for Mathew, then England was going to stab him with his spoon. It wouldn't the first time that the Frenchman had been hurt with what had once been an innocent tool, and it most certainly wouldn't be the last. They might be 'friends' in a sense, but that never stopped the two from fighting or arguing like squabbling children.

"Mon ami," France began, coming over to sidle closer to England's left side. He saw the sword on the other's right, and had avoided it. "I couldn't help but notice that you weren't drinking tea today, why is that?" England blinked, not having thought of the other coming for that, but he kept his guard up. The Englishman decided to be partly honest. Partly. "I just favor it, right now," he said, calmly. He looked away, taking another sip, despite how much he wanted the Frenchman gone so that he could gulp the whole thing down like how he do his liquor.

Said Frenchman hummed in thought, and then patted the shorter blonde's head. The Englishman glared at him, growling something unintelligible under his breath, and a moment afterwards, a small orb appeared behind the Frenchman. When said man walked away, the orb followed, before abruptly, the stumbled man passed by Russia and accidently slapped him with his free hand by the sunflower he had been admiring. England began to snicker darkly, as the Russian stood up to his full height and asked the quivering Frenchman where he had grown so bold. Mathew was sitting straight, shaking his head, but he kept careful watch over the possible fight. If they came any closer, then the colony told himself he was going to walk out of there. He didn't need a bruise or a broken face, which France was most likely to get, as he was saying all the wrong things.

England was smirking, he loved bad luck charms. They delighted him in how much could be ensued just by a simple gesture. A piece of bad luck was all it took to turn a simple movement or gesture or anything into a total disaster. Such as now, with France having slapped Russia with the sunflower; on any normal occasion, the breeze from France leaving would have simply twirled the flower. But with this little charm, England had all but made France sweep his arm too far and slap the beloved flower into the Russian's face. It was the perfect instigation for a fight. The Russian hadn't been bothering anyone, he was thoroughly enjoying his flower, and then France comes along to slap him. It was all too funny.

Speaking of France, Russia had decided that since his flower was undamaged, and that since there were more flowers still in the vase, that the French nation would only receive two strikes to his person. Once to his hand, luckily for France, it was not his writing hand, and then to his head. Which again fortunately, Russia had not put full force behind it; or otherwise the French nation might walk around looking for his face, or everything above the waist. Again, there was no telling with Russia. The county was unpredictable.

It was not long afterwards that America was coming in, saying something tightly to a citizen, whom England supposed was a reporter or a noble or something of such, before the American shut the door. The meeting seemed to drag on, after America sat down beside England. Austria went up and talked, boasting of his house and how the countries under him were obedient. Spain rolled his eyes, and Prussia made it a point to raise his hand and ask if any of his underlings actually liked him. Austria retorted that they didn't need to like him to work under him, to which Prussia laughed as the German pointed out, "Then more likely than not, dummkopf, they'll abandon you the first chance they get."

Russia went up next, after a heated verbal argument on Austria's part where he said some of his harshest German in public, all the while as Prussia leant back in his chair and made fun of him in English. The Russian helped to lose of the tension by speaking of the new trade terms he had made with several of his neighboring countries, and then proceeded to boast how he was gaining favor in England. America scoffed, and England had to point out that the trade agreements between the British Empire and Russia were still in progress and no more substantial than a growing plant. It could still be cut down. Russia had shrugged and sat down, smiling all the while, and just creeping out the general population of the room within his range. Spain chose to go next, speaking of how his colonies in the equator over in the Americas, he met America's eyes at this, and their wonderful surplus of crops were gaining him more money than he knew what to do with. He also asked Austria, pointedly, how his portion of Italy was doing. Austria had gravelly reminded the other, in English, that Spain could not have both portions of Italy. The Spanish country had smirked and then sat down.

America was next, and he brought in some good news. Like how he had found gems in his country, in the area the meeting was present in, and that he would be sending some of them to the countries later, after they were refined. He made a few other announcements, including where the restaurants were more concentrated at, and giving directions to the hotel. The American's words began to slur together in England's mind, but nonetheless his notes were clear and precise as he somehow managed to follow every word. But in his mind, he was anxious. What would he say, after he took his coat? Would anyone know that the coat was from American furs? Or would they suspect an ally in the room as the father? Would there be a war?

Oh, please don't let there be a war.

When it came time for England to speak, he was darkly muttering things under his breath. But when he came to stand in front of the room, he simply decided to just get it over with. He felt a combination of giddiness and all of his fears intermingle in his middle, as he took off the coat and suddenly everyone started talking. Mathew was even shocked at how large England had gotten since he had last seen him, America had swallowed some of his water and tried to look around the room. Russia had cocked his head and congratulated the nation, and then proceeded to loudly ask who the father was. One might even say that the Russian looked a bit afraid.

England felt all eyes travel back to him, the whole room was silent and waiting, and then he spoke. "I do not wish to say anything, it is not anyone's business but ours," England said calmly, but his voice held a tone of finality. He had not given his child a father, whether he had damned himself or saved his skin was yet to be proven. America had looked somewhat saddened, which only Mathew caught the look of, as England did not meet the other's eyes. Most of the eyes travelled to France, who was eying England's belly with interest, but no one openly voiced they thought the father was.

After England sat down, the silence continued, and eventually, with a flat tone, America announced a lunch break. The countries numbly dispersed, and when England went to gather his things, he found America not only handing them to him, but Mathew already ready to go. The American helped him into the coat, to both hide his belly from public eye and to keep the chill off. Then he was gone. Although he was saddened by the other not being there, England knew why. Mathew said nothing, thankfully, as they ate lunch in a small diner.

When the meeting resumed, there was less talking and England knew why. He could feel the subtle and not-so subtle eyes of everyone on him. It unnerved him, and yet it was to be expected. He was center of gossip, right now, and he could only wait it out. This reaction was to be expected. He had expected it. He would survive. They were only staring. As long as they did not put a hand to him, then all would be fine.

With those somewhat-positive thoughts in mind, England managed to survive the meeting. When it is over, he goes to his room, after showing Mathew to his, despite the younger saying that the Brit shouldn't be on his feet so much and how he was old enough to walk his own body to his room. England had only ruffled his hair and told him a good day, saying that he knew but liked to think the other still needed him for something. Mathew had warmed at that, and thanked the Brit, but said he would be okay for the rest of the afternoon. England then nodded and went on about his way. His room wasn't that far, thankfully, and as soon as he was inside, he went to lie down on the bed. His feet really hurt. Again.

But not even ten minutes to lying down on the bed, France barges in, despite how England thought he had locked the door, and the Frenchman was bringing food. He claimed to have found a 'semi-decent eating establishment' and wanted to bring his 'friend' something to eat, while said 'friend' was 'in need of help'. England had flatly stared at him, and then told him to leave, and to take his food with him. But in all honesty, the food did smell good. However, England would rather wait for his feet to ease up and starve, then accept food from Francis, while he was like this. He had his pride.

Eventually the Frenchman pretends to give up, and just leaves the food there. He knew that the Englishman was hungry, could tell from the other blonde was eying the plate, and so he left. England immediately began eating, enjoying the dinner roll first. A little while later, when the plate is empty and England is trying to pass the time by reading, despite the small pains he got from his middle; Alfred comes along. The American smiles when he comes in; but then his face is sad, as he closes the door.

England is momentarily happy to see the other, but then he saw his face and realized that this was not a pleasant visit. America confirmed his suspicions by first addressing him as Arthur, and then asking him why he hadn't said anything about him or them being together at the meeting. The room was silent, as England fingered the pages of his book, before marking his page with a faded ribbon and then putting aside on the dresser. He waited a bit longer, as he took time to stand and fully facing America, he said, "I don't want people to point their finger at you, in the event should I fall. I'm the one to blame, after all. I had a hand in this too, just like everything else. I let this happen."

America made a move to open his mouth, but England closed the distance between them to kiss him. Once, twice and on the third time, he sighed. "Don't stress over me," England said, as the younger country tried to wrap his arms around him and rock them on his heels. The motion was somewhat soothing, and England felt himself moving with it. He didn't mind this. He didn't mind at all. In fact, he enjoyed this. He liked them, him and Alfred, being together, when the Brit's guilt wasn't present. Or at the very least, he enjoyed the times when the guilt wasn't trying to make England push America away.

He wished that they could have moments like these more often. Peaceful. Quiet. And most of all, for England, nothing to regret.

* * *

It was on the second day of the meeting that England began to feel strange. His cramps were back, and with a vengeance. He couldn't stand to eat anything, Hell, he couldn't even stand! He couldn't move below the waist. His headaches came around later, and just as the time for the meeting is coming around, America was thinking on going to check on England, the meeting was supposed to start and he the Brit wasn't there. Everyone else was there, but England. America hadn't seen the other since last night, and he was worried. England was a natural early-riser, but it was almost a half hour to the meeting start and he wasn't there. Even the other countries were beginning to grow concerned. Just as France offered to go get him, voicing that the Brit had overslept, America just stood and went to get England himself. He didn't want France near England right then, for some, he just knew he didn't want them near each other right then.

Right as America neared the Brit's room, he hears a heavy thud, and he was running down the hall. He couldn't hear anything past the blood pounding in his ears, as he fumbled with the lock, before he ultimately and purely accidentally broke it, and the American was rushing inside. There, right on the floor is England. But not in the way he's supposed to be, if he's supposed to be going to a meeting. His face is pale, blue veins plainly visible, and the Brit has bitten his bottom lip through so that a small trail of blood is leaking down his chin.

The Brit is lying on his stomach, crawling, or possibly just writhing on the ground. It was hard to tell. But as America regains part of his senses, he shuts the door, and tried to move England onto his back. The English nation looked to have a broken rib, but that wasn't what made America start to seize on his breath. England's entire stomach, especially the bottom past his bellybutton, is heavily bruised and swollen. When the American touches it, despite him trying his hardest to do so gingerly, the Brit winces and looked like he was about to cry. Added on how something within the Brit's belly was moving against his palm, and kicking the wall between it and the world outside, with enough force to make the American's fingertips jump each time. With every one of England's pained grunts and the way that he was dragging his nails down the floor. It was almost too much.

Knowing that England was very near his breaking point, almost unconsciousness from the internal bleeding and the pain both, America tried to get up to call for a doctor. He tried to reassuringly pat England's head, trying to tell that he would be back, but the Brit took his wrist in an iron-clad grip. The fierceness in his green eyes told of the power that was still in the hands of the Great British Empire. "Don't. You. Dare." England grit out, and America frowned. He bit his lip, as England tried to level his breathing. His palms were clammy and sweaty. His eyes aren't focused. America doesn't know what else to do, and then he remembered the knife in his belt.

He looked at England, on the ground, possibly dying or going to die if the situation was left untended. America grit his teeth, as he took the knife from his belt, he tapped England on his head, and let him see it, before he did anything. He wanted permission. At first, England looked startled, and then he looked down at himself, felt how the life inside of him was kicking to be free, and he bit his lip again. He spat out the blood, and clenched his jaw, "Do it. Quickly."

America nodded, his eyes pricking at the sheer look on England's face. Trying to spare the Brit some mercy, he found a small pillowcase and tore a shred. He scourged through the Brit's bag to see the little vial of opium. It still had some left in it. While America did not care too much for the white substance, he knew of the numbing quality it held. He would need this. He put a small moment on the torn pillowcase and then walked back to England. He gagged the other, made a shushing motion to his lips, but the Brit was already in direct contact with the opium. His eyes were drooping, and he was murmuring something behind the gag, but America did not understand him. The American took a deep breath, and tried not to think of what he doing. He was about to put the knife to the other's shirt, when he realized he would need thread to sew the other back up. He would have to sew the other back up again. He chuckled darkly, and went rummaging in the other's belongings again to find his needle and thread. America wouldn't waste time with going back to his room. There was no time.

Then, with his knife, the needle and thread, England drugged and gagged, but knowing that he held the other's life and trust, as he inwardly prayed that he didn't mess up; the America made the first incision into the skin. Despite the opium, England screamed behind the gag. America tried to ignore it, and do as he was supposed to do. He really hoped that the Brit wasn't so loud as to attract attention. Looking the other in the eyes briefly, teary-eyed emerald met worried blue; an entire unspoken conversation went through them. England tried to nod, and he only whimpered as America tried not to think about who he was cutting, as he sliced back the skin to reveal the gore in his hands.

Blood. There was blood on his hands. It was Arthur's. But once he found what he thought he was looking for, he plucked it and cut its ties to England. It didn't cry immediately, but when it did, it was right in America's ears. The American tried to be swift, using one hand to sew as efficiently as he had ever done, as quickly as he had ever done, and then sit back and just…hold on to what had nearly been the end of everything.

A little boy, at least his lower half said so, with a scrunched up face and grey-blue colored eyes. His hair was still sticky, but it looked like the same color as America's hair. He had slight freckles, just like England, and he sniffling. He didn't have big eyebrows, but he was still a newborn. Newborn. America, no, Alfred had a newborn son. This was his son. The young country began to laugh, as he cried, holding the infant to his chest, as it cried again. England was still gagged and his eyes were closed. America couldn't tell if he was breathing, but he was still bleeding. His blood was on America's hands, on the newborn who continued to cry and wail.

America cried with him, whether in joy or sorrow, he didn't know. The infant was the living token of England's love declaration to him. The Brit had let himself be cut open for him, literally opened himself up to America, and had trusted him with his life. This more than made up for anything that the Brit had done, right? Right? So why couldn't America stop crying? Why wasn't England waking up and trying to soothe the infant? America couldn't take care of a kid. He was still a kid, himself! He would admit it! He wasn't nearly as ready as he thought he would be. The newborn was still crying, and he wouldn't stop crying. Someone was bound to have heard it by now, and people were most likely on their way. America was going to look like a killer, who had stolen a child.

There was still blood on his hands. England's blood. He had their child and his mother's blood on his hands.

* * *

Present day:

"Hey Artie! Get a look at this!" Arthur blinked back the memory, hand instinctively going to his middle, where he imagined there was still a scar to be seen. The English nation looked out the railing over the porch, of one of Alfred's many homes littered throughout his various states. The Englishman smiled gently as he saw Alfred playing with the smaller young blonde attempting to knock him over. The young blonde with messy brown-speckled sunshine blonde hair covering the most of his hazel-grey eyes, freckles blooming across his face and a slight lithe form that held some partial tan akin to his father's, was Henry. Henry James Kirkland-Jones, the child of Arthur and Alfred.

Despite having been born under poor circumstances, with England having to be unconscious and unable to care for him for nearly a week to recover, and being left to his father who had no idea how to raise children and had struggled for the first few hours, through trial and error; Henry was a healthy boy. He was a happy boy, as talkative as Alfred, though his manner of speech was like Arthur's. He was well-loved by other countries, and his birth had been the start of many alliances. Henry, himself, was a country, albeit a group of islands. It was thought he was the living embodiment of the Virgin Islands, but despite many experiments, it was not found which of them, as Henry claimed to feel the connection in all of them.

Henry was his parents' living pride and joy. He was smart, albeit he had his moments and sometimes he couldn't read an atmosphere when the situation called for it. He was a natural rebel, having tried to do so once in a meeting, by throwing a pen at Russia, and then use his first sword to chase after the Bad Touch Trio for a whole hour, until Arthur yelled at him to come back or he was going to chased himself. Arthur was a good 'mother', albeit strict, whilst Alfred was the playful dad who was more than capable of instilling discipline when needed.

"Careful now," Arthur warned, jokingly. "I'm not setting any casts today, thank you very much." Henry stuck out his tongue, and Alfred used the moment of distraction to grab the teenager by his waist and flip them over. Henry was now being carried over Alfred's shoulder, and he was laughing as he shrilled in delight. "No fair, dad! You cheated! Mum, dad cheated! He cheated! That's a foul! I am calling it a foul!"

Arthur's green eyes twinkled, as he enjoyed the scene. He briefly recalled the scene of waking up, after Henry's birth, where he saw Alfred trying to feed the stubborn babe and losing the battle pitifully. He could still remember the smile that lit up Alfred's face, when he saw him awake; how he had let his shoulder droop and how Henry had shrilled like a brat, while Alfred groaned and tried to silence him. Arthur still remembered opening his arms; when Alfred handing both Henry to one arm, where the newborn instantly became quiet, and where Alfred nestled himself in the crook of Arthur's neck and nuzzled him there.

He had such a quaint, but lovely, family; even if his family included a twat and a git to boot.

Arthur blinked at the feel of someone's hand on his shoulder, he looked up to see Henry clapping his hand there, grinning. There was still a space in between his two front teeth, that Alfred loved to tease the boy for, and that Arthur said was probably his fault in some way. Henry threw a one-armed hug to his 'mother', and rocked them back on his heels. "You're so spacey, Mum, what's on your mind?"

"Yeah, Artie," Alfred joined in, placing his chin on Arthur's free shoulder and rocking with them.

The three simply rocked for a moment before Arthur answered, "Just thinking of how lucky I am to have a pair of twats like you two." But he was smiling. Henry laughed, as he hugged him, and Alfred used the opening for an even bigger group hug, picking them all up easily and rocking them all on his heels. Everyone was smiling, although Henry was probably the biggest grinner of them yet. Alfred laughed the loudest. But Arthur's eyes shone the brightest.

Alfred looked at Arthur and his eyes twinkled, as they both looked at Henry, as if still in awe that he was really and truly theirs. They may have used Henry as a means to forgive, without actually saying it, but neither had forgotten. Nevertheless, the child shared between them had and still was more than making up for anything they had neglected to say.

**They had forgiven, but had not forgotten, and all was right in their little piece of the world.**

* * *

Wow. This came out longer than I expected. And it also came out a lot later than I wanted it to be. Sorry about the lateness, ilovezim123, even though I still made our deadline! I still hope you enjoyed it! I tried to throw in a plot, I couldn't help it. (Ooh, I'm so bad.)

**THIS IS WHY I DON'T DO 1-SHOTS ANYMORE. LOOK AT THIS MONSTER. GAAAAAH.**

Anyways, hope everyone enjoyed! A big thanks to my beta, even if she did cuss me out several times for the length of this fict! I still love you, hun, even if you promise to throttle me for giving you something this big when you work over 30+ hours a week. (I still work more than you, babbu. You can't top me in this. WE IS ONE FAMILIA.)

Oh, and I don't think I've ever said this but…I am a firm believer that Canada/Mathew is a badass motherfucker. Just like Finland. I also believe that whenever England bottoms, he does it with manipulation. So that even if he is on bottom, he gets the most of it and he still tops in a psychological sense. Because that is how England rolls. He is the very anthem of a NO-SHET-HAVING-GENTLEMAN. *Hetalia gang-sign*

**READ AND ****REVIEW****!**

I wonder if anyone saw the many history references littered throughout this entire fict. This is between everyone, not just through the USUK, but around everyone. Did anyone catch the most obvious ones or the most painful ones (FEELS-wise)? [Ah, Hetalia. Making World History all the more tear-inducing since its creation.]


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